


A Frame of Living Wood

by miloowen



Series: The Post-A Million Sherds Universe [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Established Relationship, Friendship, Jewish Holidays, Kindness, M/M, Mild Language, Spiritual Renewal, Tu b'Shevat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miloowen/pseuds/miloowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A disagreement with Jean-Luc sends Will to the Arboretum and a chance meeting with Ambassador Spock, who is commemorating the holiday of Tu b'Shevat, the Jewish New Year of Trees.  The setting is post-"A Million Sherds" and "A Horn for All Your Songs."</p><p>The title comes from a poem by Yaacov Paley:</p><p>For what is man<br/>But a frame<br/>Of living wood<br/>With a bark of flesh<br/>Whose spent years<br/>Are carefully recorded<br/>In the rings of his soul<br/>To be counted and measured<br/>When his tree is felled...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [larissabernstein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/gifts).



> Tu b'Shevat is a minor Jewish holiday with its origins in the Torah quotation "...a man is a tree of the field." Originally having to do with the religious tithings of fruit trees, it is now traditionally considered Israeli Arbour Day, a day in which thousands of Jewish religious school children donate money to plant trees in Israel, and in which it's traditional to plant the seeds of the parsley that one will eat on Pesach (Passover).
> 
> Similar to both Rosh Hashanah and Pesach in its celebration, Tu b'Shevat (the fifteenth of Shevat) has a seder in which the Biblical fruits are eaten -- grapes, figs, dates, pomegranates, apricots, quinces -- and in which the differing types of fruits are eaten -- those with peels, those with inedible seeds, those without seeds, those with shells --including the fifteen fruits of Israel.

A Frame of Living Wood

A Tu b’Shevat Story

 

 

 

1.

 

 

            It had been stupid, profoundly stupid, and it had probably been my fault as well.  I knew that I should simply stop sulking and go back and apologise, but there was this tight little ball of mad inside me that made me head in the opposite direction.  Maybe I’d been a jerk – okay, I know I’d been a jerk – but wasn’t that what McBride had tried to help me learn?  Sometimes you were a jerk, and it didn’t have to be the end of the world, and you could just work through it – but he’d looked at me, and I thought, shit, in two seconds he’ll call Security, and I’d said, “Fine.  Have it your way, then,” and had stormed out.

            Hell, stormed out, my ass.  Slunk out is more like it, because I was the one who’d been a jerk, after all, and he’d had a right to get mad at me, or whatever the fucking word was.  But he didn’t have a right to get so goddamned mad, and if he’d given me half a second I would have apologised, and this was obviously going nowhere.

            So what the hell do you do when you’re the First and you’ve had a fight with your lover, who just happens to be the captain, and everybody on the goddamned ship knows that you’re with the captain, and can probably surmise that he’s the reason you’re in some sort of a foul mood, and there isn’t one sane person on this ship who would want to be involved in that kind of a mess.  Even Deanna has had the good sense to judiciously disappear.

            So there was no way I was going to Ten Forward, because Guinan was Jean-Luc’s whatever she’d been way before I’d even been born, so if I were looking for a shoulder to cry on it certainly wouldn’t be hers.  And everyone else would probably prefer to jump out of an airlock rather than listen to me bitch about how unfair Jean-Luc had been.  Which left the gym or the holodecks or the observation deck – instead, I walked onto the turbo lift and said, “Deck Seventeen.”

            I didn’t have to be maudlin about it, but I’d enjoyed the Arboretum before I’d begun my relationship with Jean-Luc, and I didn’t need his damned permission to go back.  The only drawback would be that I might meet Keiko, and I hoped, as the doors opened, that she was in the preschool room with Molly.

            I took a moment to just breathe in the air, which is what Deanna had taught me to do, and so I stood there breathing for a bit, and I could feel myself calming down somewhat, and I figured I’d made the right choice.  I could walk down the path to the pond, and I could take my boots off, and just relax on the lawn, and if I did that for an hour or so I’d be ready to go back and apologise for being a jerk, and maybe he’d actually accept my apology.

            As I came round the shrubbery into view of the pond I saw a figure in the long robes of Vulcan and I wondered how I could have possibly forgotten that the Ambassador was on the ship.  And then I thought that it was no wonder Jean-Luc was so uptight, and I sighed, because I’d pretty much made a mess of things and Dr McBride was no longer on the ship to help me out, and I was absolutely not going to go to da Costa for advice on my sex life.  He was crouched down and I wondered what he was doing.  I felt a little stupid, because maybe it was some Vulcan ritual that I didn’t know anything about, and here I was the first officer of a ship with a number of Vulcan crewmen, and yet it seemed I was still, despite my friendship with Stoch, woefully ignorant of their culture.

            I approached slowly, not wanting to disturb him, but I also didn’t want to give up my plan of sitting in my usual place by the pond and trying to calm down.  Finally I decided that the Arboretum was big enough for one Vulcan doing some strange ritual and one human in a freaking snit and I walked over to the bench where I usually sat and bent over to take off my boots.         

            He was planting something, I could see that now, and it almost sounded as if he were singing something softly to himself.  I pulled off my socks and stretched, and then stuffed my socks in my boots and stood up.  I wondered if he had permission to plant something new in the Arboretum, and then I thought that perhaps my argument with Jean-Luc had just fried my critical thinking processes, because he’d been a science officer and he was an icon in Starfleet and he could probably do whatever he goddamned wanted to do.  So I walked over to the pond, and sat down on the slope, and rested myself against the little flagstone wall, and closed my eyes.

            “Even, Commander,” he said, from right beside me, “when you are being quiet, you are loud.”

            Obviously, this was just fuck Riker day or something.  I opened my eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Ambassador.  I was trying to be quiet.  I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

            He gathered his robes and sat down beside me.  “It was merely a comment, Commander,” he said.  “It was not meant as a criticism.”

            “Oh,” I said.  Now I was feeling both sulky _and_ stupid.  I should have stayed in bed (not that Jean-Luc would have permitted me to).

            “I was given permission to plant the fruit tree,” he said, after a pause.

            “Of course you were, sir,” I answered.  Shit, it was like sitting next to Deanna’s mother.

            “I understand from Captain Picard that you are recovering from a serious illness,” he remarked.  

            Jean-Luc was talking to him about me?  Of course, Jean-Luc had that closeness to him, because of his meld with the Ambassador’s father, so perhaps theirs was a relationship that might encourage confidences.  And, I thought, perhaps that was a good thing, because since Dr McBride had returned to Starbase 515, there really wasn’t anyone with whom Jean-Luc could speak about me, and about our relationship.  He’d never much cared for intimate discussions with Deanna, and it would still – despite all we’d been through – be awkward talking to her about me. 

            “Yes,” I said.  “I am mostly recovered, now.  I am still in treatment for some of the lingering symptoms.”

            “The knowledge of Section 31 has been quite a shock for him,” the Ambassador said.  “Even though they have now been exposed, I do not believe that they will be non-operational for long.”

            “No,” I said, and briefly I thought about Admiral Pressman.  He was just the type to be attracted to Section 31.

            “You have had some sort of altercation with the captain?” Spock did not look at me, and I didn’t look at him, but I could almost hear – was it my imagination? – an undercurrent of amusement in his voice.

            I sighed.  This was clearly not going to be my day at all.  There was, of course, no point in denying the obvious.  “Yeah,” I said.  “I’ve been a jerk – I’m good at that – and he’s uptight.  It wasn’t a particularly auspicious combination.”

            He was silent, and then I saw his shoulders shake, briefly.  If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was laughing at me.  He said dryly, “I am familiar with the syndrome,” and then I knew he’d been laughing.  It occurred to me that he was referring to his captain – ah.  

            “You were wondering what I was doing,” he said.

            “Yes,” I answered.

            “You are familiar with the Jewish faith?”

            “I’ve become more familiar,” I said.  “My doctor, Alasdair McBride, is Jewish – and he taught me about some of the major concepts, especially about healing, and about some of the major holidays.  And I’m friends with our rabbi from stellar cartography.”

            “Yes, Rabbi Cardozo is a very interesting man.  He told me about the Chanukah celebration you had for Dr McBride.”

            “That was the captain’s idea,” I said.  “It turned out well.”

            “Today is Tu b’Shevat,” the Ambassador explained.  “The fifteenth of Shevat.  In Israel, it is the start of the spring rains, and so it is a day to commemorate the rising of the sap in the fruit trees, and the beginning of spring.  An important holiday in any agrarian community.”

            “Like break-up,” I said, and I felt a little bit more comfortable.  “Where I’m from – in Alaska – the first sign of spring is the annual break-up of the ice on the rivers.  It’s a muddy, messy season – but one that’s really celebrated, after a winter that’s bitterly cold and almost completely dark.”

            “Yes,” he agreed.  “On Vulcan, because it is mostly a desert planet, the spring rains are also an occasion of great joy.”

            I was quiet for a minute.  McBride had been a Betazoid Jew.  And Spock?  “Are you Jewish, then?” I asked.

           “My mother was,” he said, “and so, technically, am I.  I commemorate the holidays in her honour – and I have found, over the years, that there is a spiritual symmetry between the teachings of the Talmud and the writings of Surak.”

            That was a little deep for me.  He glanced at me, and his dark eyes were kind.  

            “You are still suffering from your illness,” he said.

            I could feel my hand start to shake.  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

            “Because,” he answered, “you are still too comfortable in denigrating yourself.  I rather doubt, William – if I may call you that? – that anything is too deep for you.”

            There was a part of me that wanted to protest, but I could also hear both McBride and Jean-Luc concurring with his assessment.

            “I’m still in therapy,” I said.  “It will take longer than six months to eradicate a lifetime of self-hate, Ambassador.”

            “Perhaps, William, you were not really a ‘jerk’ in your quarrel with your captain, and his response was one of frustration at seeing you still in pain.”

            I’d grown quite used to the feeling of being a pinned bug under the treatment of McBride, so I didn’t say anything.

            “One of the ways we celebrate Tu b’Shevat,” he offered, “besides the planting of young trees, is with a seder – a ceremonial dinner – in which fifteen different fruits are eaten.  I have been invited, of course, by Rabbi Cardozo, to celebrate this with his family and congregation, but I am no longer used to large functions, and I was never very fond of them, even when I was on my _Enterprise_.  I intended to have the ceremony in my quarters.  I would be pleased, however, to share it with you.”

            “Thank you,” I said quietly.  “I would like that.”

 

 

 

            

            There’d been no formal agreement between us that I would move into Jean-Luc’s quarters, even though I, _de facto_ , had done exactly that.  Most of my belongings – such as they were – were still in my own quarters, although my clothes and more personal items were in his.  I kept my trombone, for example, in my quarters, because I didn’t want to disturb him with my practising, so my quarters were a perfect place to go if I’d wanted to continue my sulk.

            Curiously, after speaking with Ambassador Spock, I didn’t feel like a pouty adolescent anymore, and so, because it was my day off, I decided I’d go back to Jean-Luc’s quarters and figure out what I was going to say to him when he came off the bridge.  The Ambassador had invited me for eighteen-thirty hours, which, he told me in all seriousness, approximated sundown in Israel on Earth, so I had plenty of time to shower and change clothes and look up this holiday on my padd so I wouldn’t be completely ignorant.

            I was not expecting Jean-Luc to be in his quarters.  I was calmer, since talking with the Ambassador, but I still had no idea what I would say to him except my usual default “I’m sorry for everything” position, which he sometimes found more irritating than if I hadn’t apologised at all.  And I’d wanted to have the time to think over the observation of Spock’s, that maybe I hadn’t been a jerk at all, that my behaviour was rooted in my illness, and his response to me had been one of frustration, which, of course, I’d confused with one of my ten words, “mad.”  I wasn’t having flashbacks anymore, and I no longer suffered from night terrors, and most nights I didn’t wake Jean-Luc with terrifying dreams in which I was hiding in my great-aunt’s coat closet from my father.  But I was still undergoing CBT – Cognitive Behaviour Therapy – and one of my weekly sessions was affect management – naming and understanding my emotions – with Deanna.

            Despite what the Ambassador had intimated, I’m a simple person, really.  I’m a pilot and a reasonably good tactician, and one of my real strengths is taking something on the wing.  That works well in my day job – I’m great on the bridge, and even better on the battle bridge – but it sucks when it comes to relationships.  And this was only the second real relationship of my life, if you discount my falling in love with a holodeck image and with an androgynous being (and McBride had quite a bit to say about that); my first relationship was with Deanna, whom I’d fled from after we’d become engaged.  I understand now why I’d done that, and so did Deanna – but my track record at anything deeper than friendship isn’t good.

            Sometimes it’s hard for me to know whom I’m dealing with – the captain or Jean-Luc, and that was yet another issue I was still tackling.  He was at his desk, reading reports, something he usually did in his ready room, so perhaps he’d been waiting for me to return.  I didn’t know.  

            “William,” he said, without looking up.

            When I was ill, he sometimes would just hold me, and this was one of those times when I wished – not that I wanted to be back in that space – that he would see that words still failed me and that my emotions still tended to be all over the place.  I felt, not always but at times like this, that maybe he expected too much of me – but perhaps McBride would say it was the other way around, that I expected too much of me.  Either way, he was at his desk, and I was in the doorway, and there was more than just three metres between us. 

            “Jean-Luc,” I said, and I walked in and pulled the chair up to the desk, slung my leg over it, and sat down.  Normally he rolled his eyes when I did that, but he was too busy reading whatever he was reading.  “How come you’re off the bridge?” I asked.

            “I think you know why,” he said.

            “Oh.”  There was nothing to say to that.  I hoped he would say something, but he continued with his silence, and I sighed.  “I went to the Arboretum,” I said.

            “Did it help?” 

            I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or actually asking if it had helped me.  “Yes,” I said.  

            “Good,” he replied.

            “I met Ambassador Spock there,” I offered.  “In the Arboretum.”

            “Did you,” he said.  He shut his padd down and turned to look at me.

            “It’s a Jewish holiday today – I mean, tonight,” I said.  “They start at sundown, the holidays.”  I was reduced to babbling.  “Did you know the Ambassador is Jewish?”

            “William,” he said again.

            “Sir,” I said, and then I winced.  He hated it when I did that.  The only time he’d ever shouted at me was over my saying “sir” when I wasn’t supposed to.  

            He sighed.  “What exactly is the matter with you today?” he asked.

            I looked down.  “I don’t know,” I said.  “Sometimes I’m just a jerk, I guess.”

            He stared at me and then he said, “William, if that were simply the case here I might even find it amusing.  But it is not, and you are not.”

            “I’m sorry,” I said.

            “I know,” he replied.  “But that, unfortunately, is not the point.”

            “Maybe,” I said, “we should just reinstitute respite care, and I should spend tonight in my own quarters.  Perhaps you wouldn’t feel so –“ I paused, and then I remembered what the Ambassador had said.  “Perhaps you wouldn’t feel so frustrated with me.”

            “Perhaps so,” he agreed.

            I hadn’t wanted him to agree with me, but I’d just hoisted myself with my own petard, so I said, “The Ambassador invited me to have Tu b’Shevat seder with him.  He said he didn’t necessarily want to attend Rabbi Cardozo’s.”

            “That was kind of him,” he said.  “Are you going?”

            “Yes,” I answered.  “He is. Kind.”

            “You’d better get ready, then,” he said.

            “Okay.”  I stood.  “You’ll still be here?” I asked.  “After I shower, I mean.”

            “These are my quarters,” he reminded me.  “Where else would you like me to be?”

            I’d started for the bedroom and I said, without turning around, “Do you want me to shower in my own quarters, then?”

            I heard him push the chair out.  “William, come here,” he said.

            I turned and walked back towards the desk.  McBride always talked about the reset button – where I could just take a flashback or a troubling memory and press the reset button, so it would go away until I could deal with it when I was ready to – and I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to use it as badly as I wanted to now.  I didn’t understand why he was so frustrated with me, and I didn’t understand why I’d been so badly behaved today, and the way he was saying things to me now, as if he expected me to understand him, when even after six months of stupid therapy I still didn’t seem to understand anything at all.

            “I suck at relationships,” I blurted out.

            He did roll his eyes then, and he said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, come here,” and he took me into his arms.  I rested my head on his shoulder and he said in my ear, “What am I going to do with you, _mon cher_?” and it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t mad at me anymore, or frustrated, or tired of me, or whatever the hell it was.  “My poor boy,” he murmured, and he walked me into the bedroom, where there is at least one aspect of a relationship in which I do excel.

            

            


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William attends the Tu b'Shevat seder with Spock and is given a chance to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to Rabbi Gold, for his beautiful Tu b' Shevat seder.
> 
> In canon, and in A Million Sherds, the novel which describes Will Riker's battle with PTSD, Will's mother died of a virus when he was two and a half years old. Her death set up the abusive relationship he had with his father.

 

2.

 

 

 

 

            “I’m not sure what I should wear,” I said.  I was sitting on the edge of our bed, and Jean-Luc was drying himself off.

            He tossed me the towel.  “Your back is still wet,” he said.  “Do you want some help?”  He walked out of the head and over to his dresser.

            “With my back or with my clothes?” I asked.

            “Both, or either,” he replied.  

            “Both,” I said, and I leaned against him for a moment as he dried my back.  “Thanks.”

            “You’re welcome,” he said, kissing me.  “Now what is the problem with your clothes?”

            “I’m off duty, so I can’t wear my uniform,” I said.  “He’ll be wearing robes, since he always does.  I’d look pretty silly in robes, even if I had any.”

            “Should I be jealous?” Jean-Luc asked.  “I don’t recall your fussing over your appearance for me, _mon cher_.”

            “It wouldn’t hurt you, Jean-Luc, to be a little jealous,” I said, grinning.

            “Don’t take it too far, William, or I shall be forced to demand satisfaction from him,” Jean-Luc replied, “and somehow I don’t think Admiral Nechayev would find my dueling the Ambassador amusing.”

            “I _knew_ your favourite novel was _The Three Musketeers_ ,” I said.  “You just pretend to read all this other junk.”

            “According to your Auntie Tasya, you’d read every book in your school library by the time you were eight,” he replied.  “So don’t pretend to be aliterate to me.”

            “Yeah, but Jean-Luc, it was a village of maybe two hundred people,” I said, laughing.  “The school only had twenty books.”

            “And you read the same twenty books twenty times,” he answered, and he was laughing too.  “Somehow I’ve heard that story before.”  He picked up the towel from the bed, and said, “Wear the new trousers and your blue shirt.”

            “I always wear my blue shirt,” I said, but I took it out and got dressed.

            “There,” he said, “you look presentable, Will.  I’m not sure why you’re so nervous about having a meal with the Ambassador.”

            I shrugged.  “Hero worship, maybe,” I said.  “I heard so many stories about them, at the Academy.”

            He didn’t respond, and I went back into the head to finish combing my hair.

            “What are you doing this evening?” I asked.

            “I have a Shakespeare tutorial with Mr Data,” he answered.  “We are working on the comedies, now.  I believe he has chosen to read from _Twelfth Night_.”

            “I’m sorry,” I said.  “I don’t know which is worse, his reciting Shakespeare or odes to his stupid cat.”

            I walked out into the dayroom, and Jean-Luc said wryly, “I’m not sure that the cat is stupid, Number One.  After all, it rather effectively dealt with you.”

            I looked at him in surprise, and then I laughed.  “I hope, Jean-Luc,” I said, “that that doesn’t mean you’re going to be launching yourself at me any time soon as a method of dealing with me.”

            “Whatever works,” he replied, and he pulled me in for a kiss.

            “I’m off,” I said.  “Have fun with Data.”

            I started for the door and he said, “Will.”

            I turned around.  “Sir?” I said, and he sighed.  “Sorry,” I said.  “Yes?”

            “Are you sure you are all right?” he asked, and he wasn’t playing anymore.  “You seem very keyed up to me.”

            “I was upset before, when you were angry with me, or frustrated, or whatever it was,” I answered.  “I felt like I’d made a mess of things.  But I’m okay, now.”

            “I explained about your illness to the Ambassador,” he said.

            “I know.  He told me.”

            He came towards me, and held my hand for a moment.  “I will be in Holodeck Two,” he said.  “You’ll call me, if you need me?”

            “I’m fine, Jean-Luc,” I said.  “You have a good time.”  I gave him a quick kiss and left.

 

 

 

            The Ambassador had his guest quarters on Deck Seven, and I realised, once I’d stepped into the turbo lift, that Jean-Luc (as always) was right.  I was anxious.  I’d been anxious all day.  It set up that dynamic between us which had led to the argument, in fact.  I was anxious, probably more anxious than I had any conscious awareness of, and because I wasn’t aware of it, I was probably not properly in my body either, and so the signals I was sending out to Jean-Luc were that I was a disaster waiting to happen – that an explosion, or a flashback, or a meltdown, was on its way – and so he’d reacted with what he’d been taught to do by McBride, which was to bring me back into myself and make me aware of what was happening.  Except that in my current state of total unawareness I’d accused him of micromanaging me and bossing me around, and his reaction had been one of complete frustration, which _always_ felt like anger to me and _always_ frightened me – And now I could feel my ever-present depression hovering around me.  It would be so easy to give in to it.  In a way, it was comfortable.  This would never end.  I would spend the rest of my life in this half-functioning existence.  Ultimately it would exhaust Jean-Luc to the point that he would long for a romp with Vash.

            I stopped the turbo lift.  I was well enough that I could stop all of this before it fucking happened.  All right, Riker, get it back together.  I closed my eyes and placed my hands on my diaphragm, so that I could actually feel my breathing.  Breathe – in, one two three, out one two three, slow it down, make it even.  I could feel my spinning begin to slow, and then I went through the rest of my exercises.  Feel my arms, stretch them out, shake my hands, straighten my back, do my stretches, stomp my feet, reattach my head to my neck and my torso, feel.  The problem with trauma is that you can’t deal with the pain of what happened, so your mind simply strips you of personhood – you become a robot, an automaton, ice – in my case, I turned myself into stone.  Hard, glacial stone.  Nothing can come in and nothing can go out.  You don’t live in your body anymore; you don’t feel your arms or your legs or your organs.  It’s called depersonalisation in McBride speak.  The cure is to realise that you’re alive, not dead.  That you have a body that works and you live in it.  It all sounds pretty stupid – it really sounded stupid to me when McBride and Deanna first had me do these exercises – but of course, as with everything McBride had taught me, it wasn’t stupid at all.  I got into trouble when I forgot that I was alive, in this body.  Putting myself back into physical reality was the only way to stop the anxiety.  Then I could actually take the time to figure out what the trigger for the anxiety was.

            I spent another few minutes breathing, to the point where I could tell that there was feeling back in my limbs and my heart wasn’t racing anymore.  The other trap – besides the not being in one’s body anymore – was then berating myself for not realising what was happening.  The one that the Ambassador had caught on to, right away – what was it he’d said?  That I was still too comfortable in denigrating myself.  And that was the trap, there, blaming myself for symptoms of an illness, feeling the guilt and the shame that fed into my self-hate and my depression and my old friend suicidal ideation, always lurking around the corner.  McBride had given me ways to ward that off as well, and so I said, “Deck Seven” to the computer and went over my set of affirmations in my head:  I am essentially a good person.  I am funny, and kind, and loyal.  I do my job always to the best of my abilities.  I can manage the symptoms of my illness.  Jean-Luc loves me.  I love him.

            The doors opened and I stepped out.  My breathing was even and I felt calmer.  I could figure out what had triggered my anxiety later – and I could ask Jean-Luc or Deanna or da Costa or Stoch for help.  I didn’t have to do any of this on my own.  I have my own support group, and part of my treatment plan was to acknowledge that I did, in fact, have my own support group, and then to actually use them.  Now, I would have my meal with the Ambassador, maybe even learn something new.  Maybe even have a good time.

            I rang the chime and heard him say, “Enter.”  I walked in, not knowing what to expect, but was immediately comforted by the fact that I recognised the table settings from meals with McBride and Lior and Tzippi Cardozo.  There was the Kiddush cup, and the challah underneath its decorated cover; the candles were ready to be lit for the holiday, and the pitcher and the basin for the ceremonial washing of the hands were there.  I took another deep breath.  I could do this, then.  I could hear music in the background, and realised it was the Vulcan lyre rendering the blessing of the season, the _Shechecheyanu_.  I knew that the Ambassador was an accomplished lyre player in his own right, and I wondered if it was his rendering of the blessing.

            “ _Shalom_ , William,” he said, welcoming me.

            “ _Shalom_ , Ambassador,” I replied, and he said, “We are family, tonight.  No formal titles.  Spock will do.”

            “Spock,” I said.  My father, when he wasn’t abusing me, had run our home as if I’d been a cadet at the Academy; using “sir” was ingrained in me, which was why it was so difficult to stop using it when I was with Jean-Luc.  It would be equally hard for me to refrain from using “sir” or “Ambassador” tonight as well, but I would try to relax.  Perhaps I could use his music as a way of circumventing my issues, and I said, “That’s a beautiful version of the blessing.”

            The Ambassador – Spock – nodded in recognition, and I saw his lip turn slightly upward, in the same way Jean-Luc’s did.  “Thank you,” he said.  “One of my early compositions.”

            “You write as well as play?” I asked.  Then I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

            “No,” Spock replied.  “The seder is ready.  And, yes, I do compose.  Mostly for the lyre, but sometimes for human instruments as well.  I was very interested in your arrangements of _Jerusalem of Gold_ and _Al Ha-Nissim_ which you played for your doctor’s Chanukah party.  You have a genuine feel for the lyricism of the music.”

            “Thank you,” I said, surprised.  I’m not the greatest trombone player in the world, but I do okay; however, usually it’s only my band members and Data who make any mention of my arrangements and original compositions.

            “Are you familiar with the concept of a seder?” Spock asked.

            I nodded.  “We were all invited to Passover last year,” I said.

            “There is a great similarity between the Pesach seder and the Tu b’Shevat seder,” Spock said.  “And there are several spiritual links between this seder and the seder for Pesach.  If you are interested, I can explain as we go along.”  He handed me a _kippah_ , and I placed it on my head, securing it with a hairpin.

            “I’m very interested,” I said, and I was surprised to find that that was true.  

            “The seder opens the same way as with any Jewish holiday,” Spock said, “first with the lighting of the candles and then with the ritual washing of one’s hands.  After that,” he explained, “we will start the seder, beginning with the pouring of the first cup of wine, and then we will bless and taste the first sequence of fruits.  Do you know the blessing for the holiday candles?” 

            “Yes,” I said.  “I learned it for Dr McBride’s Chanukah, because we provided the background music for all the blessings.  I know the candles, the ritual washing, the blessing for the wine, the _hatmotzi_ , and the _Shechecheyanu_.”

            “Then we shall begin,” he said, and he lit the candles, and we sang the traditional blessing.  He held the pitcher and washed each hand carefully, reciting the blessing and then passing the pitcher over to me, so I could do the same.

            I finished drying my hands with the ceremonial towel, blue and white fabric and decorated with tiny fruits and flowers and trees.  I took my seat, and said, “We recline on this night too?”

            “Only at certain times, and only on the left side,” he answered.

            The table was beautiful.  There were fresh flowers and green leaves, and each 

type of fruit had its own ceremonial plate.  There were two bottles of wine on the table, white and red, and he poured me a small shot glass of white wine and indicated that I should do the same for him.

            “Of all the plants in creation,” Spock said, “the Jewish people have a special affinity for trees, their branches, and their fruit.  Perhaps, as with my people on Vulcan, because they were in the beginning a desert people, trees, their flowering, their providing shade, and their providing fruit, are a special miracle and blessing.  They frequently mark where there is water, for example; they provide homes for creatures of the air and land; they provide wood with which to build; fruit and nuts to eat; shelter from storm and wind.”

            I said, “Perhaps it’s aboriginal people, as my mother’s people – who were native Alaskans – have always had a special relationship with trees as well.  The forest around the village where I lived as a child was considered a living being, and each individual tree had its own special place in the community of trees.”

            “As humans – and other humanoid species – have a symbiotic relationship with the indigenous plant life, the tree expels oxygen for humans to breathe, as the human expels carbon dioxide for the tree’s nourishment.  Then there is the essence of Jewish existence and spirituality, the Tree of Life, referring both to the Torah and to Creation.”  He paused and said, “There are four new years in Judaism, one every three months, beginning with Rosh Hashanah and ending in the month of Elul, that correspond with the seasons and with the four spiritual planes of existence.  On Earth, much of the world is dormant when Tu b’Shevat falls, but whether one is experiencing the spring rains in Israel or the rising of the sap in the Northern communities, the holiday commemorates these three things:  the birthday of trees, so that one can tithe the fruits of the trees correctly, the beginning of spring and rebirth, and the second plane of existence, that of the joining of the world of the Creator with the world on Earth.”

            I’d been listening very attentively, enjoying his explanation, and so I was surprised when he paused and, looking directly at me, smiled.  Of course I wasn’t ignorant enough to think that Vulcans never smile – I knew young Stoch far too well to ever fall into that trap – but I was surprised at the warmth of his smile, because he didn’t really know me, and he had the same reputation for shyness and reserve that Jean-Luc did.

            “There are, of course, writings in the Zohar about these connections,” he said, “which I can recommend to you, as I can see that you are in fact interested.  I was afraid,” he added wryly, “that I would bore you.”

            “I like to learn,” I said.  “I know I have a reputation for not being very academically-minded on the ship –“

            “I suspect, William,” he said, “that it is an effective cover.  Anyone can access your Academy records and see that you have an intellect.”

            I felt myself flushing a bit and I said, “I’ve learned that the most important skill for a First – especially on this ship, where there are civilians and families – is to be approachable. My first experience as a First I was so uptight and nervous that it was almost a disaster.”  Then I realised, too late, of course, that he’d been Kirk’s First, and I wondered exactly how approachable he’d been.  Of course, there were few civilians and no children on that ship, and it was a far different time.

           “Friendship was a difficult skill for me to learn, William,” he said.  “Perhaps I have some resemblance to your captain, in that regard.”

            I grinned.  “He was a tough nut to crack,” I said.  “But in the end I wore him down.”

            “Another similarity, I would expect,” Spock said, and I nearly laughed in surprise.  “I too have been on the receiving end of being worn down.”

            “No one told me about your sense of humour, Mr Spock,” I said, “it’s a little unexpected.”

            He merely lifted an eyebrow at me, and said, “Shall we begin?”  I nodded, and he pointed to our wine glasses and said, “The white wine represents the winter season, when all vegetation is dormant.  We will drink the wine after we have eaten the first of the fruits to represent the winter season….” 

            He pointed out that the first “fruit” to be blessed and eaten wasn’t a fruit at all, but wheat, and then he said a different blessing for the challah – not the _hamotzi_ – and went through the next three fruits, the olive, the date, and the grape.  Each time we ate the fruit, and he mentioned a verse from a variety of sources, both Biblical and commentary (as he said) which praised the fruit or the effects of the fruit in some way.  

            “This is a holiday in which the sole purpose,” he told me, “is to praise the great variety of the universe and to contemplate what a wondrous thing this variety is.  The sages wondered why, when surely it would have been so much simpler, to have one food, one taste, one texture – and yet creation is filled with a multitude of tastes, and textures; of colours and shapes; of flowers and trees and grains and fruits.  We now raise our glass of white wine and say the blessing:  _Baruch ata Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam borei_ _p’ri ha-gafen_.”  

            We continued with the seder, which included all kinds of different fruits, fruits with shells and fruits with seeds, and we drank the wine in the same succession that one would have done at Passover, and yet the second glass of wine had a small part of red wine mixed in with the white, to represent the rising of the sap in the early spring, and then the next glass of wine was half white and half red, to represent the summer and the full bloom of everything, and then the last glass of wine was completely red, to represent the harvest.  He’d prepared a small dinner, for after the seder, of a very aromatic soup made out of something that was close to a butternut squash, I guess, with ginger and coriander and some turmeric; and we had a special challah with raisins and cherries in it, and the music he played was a series of short compositions that he’d written for lyre, flute, and viola, on the different aspects of the holiday.

            He was pleasant in a quiet way, and I found that I’d enjoyed the experience, and his company, and his music.  

            “I had hoped, William,” he said quietly, after he’d served me a cup of coffee (decaffeinated; I was still on a no caffeine diet) and himself a mug of tea, “that participating in this seder might offer you an alternative to your pain.”

            I was instantly still.  “What do you mean?” I asked.

            “When I saw you this afternoon,” he said, “you were suffering from anxiety and depression.  You’d argued with your captain, but I believe that your anxiety was the cause of the argument, not its effect.”

            I put the cup down, before my hand started to shake and I spilled the coffee.  “That’s true,” I agreed.  “I was thinking about it, before I arrived.  I’ve been anxious and upset most of today.  Jean-Luc tried to help me with it, and I overreacted, and then we argued.  You were right – he was frustrated with me.”

            “There’s another symptom for you, as well,” he said.  “A more troubling one, perhaps.”

            “You remind me of Dr McBride,” I said.  “He was only one-quarter Betazoid, but he always knew what was happening underneath.”

            He waited, silently, for me to continue.

            “It’s part of the anxiety,” I said.  “I don’t know how to explain it, really.  My brain is healing, from the damage that this illness has done, but I still find it difficult to express things….When I get in that space, where something’s triggered my fear and my anxiety, I react the way I did when I was a child.  I shut myself down, so that I’m no longer in my body.  I stop feeling my limbs, for example.  I lose the connection to what’s physically real.  And then I’m just not attached to anything.”

            “Each new year, each new season, is a gateway, William,” he said, “a gateway that leads you through the planes of creation, along the branches of the Tree of Life.  This holiday, today, right now, the gateway is open – and the spirit and the light and the energy of creation that is expressed to us in blossoms and in fruit is here with us, where we can touch it and taste it and make it part of ourselves.  There is a prayer that is sung on _Shabbat_ and it’s one, I think, that might help you – _She is the Tree of Life, more_ _precious than gold, Open up your heart, and you will understand, that all her pathways are peace._   The prayer is referencing the Torah, of course, but what is the Torah, except the way that was given to restore the fractured sherds of light to the universe?”

            I said, “How will this help me?”  My hands were shaking now, and he reached over and placed his hands on mine.  There was a small connection, when he did that, like a volt of electricity, and I felt my trembling stop.

            “Think back to what we said,” he answered.  “The holiday is about praise, praising the infinite variety and texture, shape and touch of the universe.  Your life has been one of chaos and pain, in which the only way for you to survive it was for you to become as dormant as the trees in winter.”

            I could feel that I was crying, and he said, gently, “Turn it around, William.  Reach out for the fruit and touch it.  Feel how sticky it is, or how soft, or smooth the skin.  Taste it.  Pour the drop of red wine into the white, and let the sap rise from the root.  The branches – the pathways – are all around you.  You need only reach out and it is there, in your hand.  Close your hand around it and feel it.  Feel the light of creation and praise it, William – and in praising the life you see around you, you will lessen your pain.  This is the lesson of Tu b’Shevat for you and for us all.”

            He touched his hand, briefly, to my cheek, and I felt as if he’d somehow taken away the sadness that had been underneath my anxiety all day, and I realised, suddenly, that on the old Terran calendar it was January 16, the day my mother died.

            I said, “It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death, today.  I didn’t remember.  She died when I was two, so I never really knew her, except that Dr McBride helped me recover a few early memories of her.”

            “May her life be a blessing,” he said.  “What a great gift, to have passed through the open gateway on this day.  Your mother must have been very special.”

            “People who knew her say she was,” I answered.  I wiped my eyes, and realised that I could feel my feet inside my boots and my collar touching the back of my neck.  “I should go now,” I said.  “Thank you, for inviting me.”

            He stood, and walked me to the door.  “I am glad you came,” he said.  “Perhaps we could share a friendship, you and I.”

            “I would be honoured,” I said, “for you to think of me as a friend.”

            “Perhaps you can explain now, to your captain, the cause of your distress,” he said.  “He was worried, and he will be relieved.”

            “I know,” I answered.  “He loves me.  I forget, sometimes.”

            “Don’t,” he said, “ever forget.”

            I was still, and then I said, quietly, “I won’t, Spock.  I promise.”  The doors opened, and I said, “Good night.  And – thank you.”

            “ _Shalom_ , William,” he replied, and the doors shut.

            I walked back to Deck Nine, where Jean-Luc was waiting for me, and we lit the Yahrzeit candle together, and then I spent the night in his arms.


End file.
